Partholon

by D Krauss

  He landed hard, the wounds in his side and knee, his burnt back, missing ear and clubbed legs forcing a scream as he hit the tall grass and debris and rolled to get out of the lights which couldn’t follow him in the overgrowth, although bullets still cut around and above. He burrowed into the crap, making as small a target as possible.

  Unbelievable. Made it.

  But, probably not. There were several yells of triumph as light beams played up and around his location. They knew they’d hit him and were just trying to fix his position before they came down and finished the job. About ten of them up there and John wondered what the rest of them were doing: running around the front yard confused, trying to revive a cooling Ankh, fighting over leadership, looting, whatever.

  Not important, as long as they stayed there and didn’t wander around the back to give the posse a hand. If one of the ten hits a Claymore, the remaining nine might be sufficiently discouraged to stay away and John might actually escape, actually live through this.

  He chuckled. Please, live through this? A platoon of raving maniacs had him covered, Claymore or no Claymore. All they had to do was wait him out. If he moved, they’d shoot. If he didn’t move, sunrise would reveal him and they’d shoot. More likely, sunrise would reveal his bled-out corpse, sparing them the need for any shooting. Just hang him in the front yard to rot.

  So it goes.

  For the second time tonight, he was in need of a cigar. Would be fittingly stoic to light one up and puff away. Help the boys up there pinpoint him, of course, but may elicit a few seconds of admiration for his John Wayne attitude. Could go one better and just stand up, wave his arms, yell some insults, and let them blow him apart. Why not? It’s pretty much the end, only a miracle could save him and God hasn’t been doing those since about 70 AD. It’d be pretty ballsy. He might even get mentioned in some future epic.

  Well, hey, why not? Let’s do it.

  John actually pulled his beaten-all-to-hell legs together before he hesitated. Wassamatter, afraid? Not really, what’s one more little pain at this point? Pissed? Yeah, definitely, after all his careful planning and effort, here he was, John Rashkil, the world’s main purveyor of the everything-is-fucked philosophy, lying in foot-high grass and crap about to get his head blown off. Should’ve known better. Ought to stand, just to teach himself a lesson. So, what’s stopping you? Stand the fuck up!

  He didn’t, and didn’t even call himself a wuss. Some atavistic clinging to life, he supposed. No matter how painful or craven the existence, it is existence, so hang on, desperately. John flashed on Dad, dissolved, agonizing, all hope lost, but still demanding the very chemo that killed him. In his case, it was the fear of facing a very deserved judgment. So what is it in your case, bucko?

  Collier, for one. He’d hate for Collier to hear, someday, that his brave and stalwart fighting-against-all-odds Dad just gave up and let the enemy have him, although standing up and giving the finger would be pretty choice. For two, it was the sense that God owed him some kind of help here and standing up might obviate the first miracle since AD 70. He’d stayed loyal through some things that would turn St. Peter agnostic so, Big Guy, how ’bout it? Thunderstorm, maybe? Legion of angels? Either would do. He’d keep expecting that help right up to the point where they shot him in the back of the head while cowering in the grass, going out like a loser instead of a hero. Humiliating.

  Eh, let’s just see what happens next.

  John settled down and let the pain wash over him. Ah, man, can’t believe a person can hurt this much and still be alive. He probably wasn’t, so let nature take its course. No one seemed in too much of a hurry to come down and finish him, so if he just eased from this world through the simple act of bleeding to death, well and good.

  He was probably past the drop-dead point where a miracle would make a difference anyway, and his shattered leg obviated the urge to stand and give the finger, so take a breath, relax—

  Whoom! The ground shook and there was a searing white flash of light and concussion that drove the breath from his body. A wave of dirt and debris rolled over him. Whoom, another one, and whoom, damnation! Another! What the hell? John brushed debris out of his face and peered through the grass and there was a flash of lightning and concussion and he was covered with crap again. Good God, the entire Claymore field was going up! They were like miniature atom bombs. Air pressure and debris slammed into him harder with each second and John realized the Claymores were stepping their way down to him.

  Got to get out of here but it’s death to stand with all the ball bearings machine-gunning through the air. So he started rolling away, crashing into rocks and wood and junk and tearing his already torn back to pieces, driving his smashed knee harder into the ground and the bullet deeper in his side but hey, it beats getting shredded.

  The world was coming to an end. The heat and light were overpowering and the air was just slapping the hell out of everything. Whoomwhoom, two more in quick succession, coming nearer and nearer, and John couldn’t hear anything else but the booms and concussion so he had no idea what was happening to the freaks, but could sure guess. If the pressure wasn’t rupturing every organ in their bodies then the bearings were zipping through them like air hammers. Must be a bloody mess up there. And, if he didn’t get a couple of blocks away in the next three seconds, it was going to be a bloody mess down here, too.

  Of course, naturally, right then, John rolled into something, a fence or a pile of logs, who knew, and stopped dead. He couldn’t be more than five yards from the end of the Claymores, and that was just too damn close. He struggled but whatever he’d hit was angled too high and he couldn’t roll over it and he was too smashed up to go around and sure as hell couldn’t stand. Stuck, and here it comes, whoom, whoom, WHAM!

  He lifted off the ground, held there for a moment’s inspection, and then whatever was controlling the laws of physics decided he wasn’t worth the trouble and tossed him aside.

  He rode a wave of superheated air and concussion, like a dynamited roller coaster, and it took forever to drop, or, actually, slam, into what felt like a pile of concrete. His head bounced hard a couple of times and, mercifully, all went black.

  24

  John’s senses slowly turned back on, and not the good senses, either. Pain, first. His knee, side and back roared into full-blown agony, competing with a whole bunch of other seared, bruised, and ripped body parts; more, John suspected, than the average human actually had. Crowning all that was a terrible headache, so he must be alive unless God took wounds along. In that case, hey, Gabriel, he could really use an aspirin.

  Pain was quickly followed by smell – mostly cordite and heat and some underlying things like the rusty odor of blood, which, for it to be so clear, must be his. Made sense. You don’t feel this bad without bleeding somewhere.

  Hearing, next. There was a rising sound, something burning to vapor and then slowly fading. Aftermath, it sounded like aftermath. There was some shooting, too, but far away. John didn’t understand that.

  The parts of him still intact felt itchy and soft, so he was still lying in the grass. Oh, please don’t be poison ivy. That would just cap everything, wouldn’t it?

  He opened his eyes, or rather, eye. The blood over his left one seemed to have congealed into cement. Light, but irregular and distant, so no flashlight directed in his face, thank God, and he blinked a few times. Everything’s really blurry... oh, man, his glasses were gone. Great. Feebly, he felt around in the grass but, dude, stop, they were probably blown halfway to Lorton. Moving hurt too much, anyway. He squeezed his right eye shut and opened it a few times but that wasn’t a cure for nearsightedness, so John just stared at the fuzzy world.

  Still nighttime. The irregular light was fire, not dawn, obviously his former house eating itself. What time is it, three in the morning, Four? Could be 10:30 last night for all he knew, just a simple hour since he’d talked to Coll. Doubt that. Time zips by when you’re in the middle of a war so it’s after midnight, at
least. Of course, it could be three days later.

  John squinted at what had to be rising smoke, about five to six columns of it, ghosts against the cheerful glow of firelight. What could those be... ah, got it, they marked the last location of recently discharged Claymores. The columns were the only things he could see in that direction. Everything else was blurry ruin.

  The shooting continued and he heard shouts but they seemed distant. Wonder how long they’ll remain distant? Eventually, Ankh’s pals are going to come back here looking for the posse and find hamburger, instead, which just might irritate them. He should get goin’ while the goin’s good. John sat up.

  What a bad idea. His punctured side screamed, as did his back, and the headache suddenly went uber-migraine and he vomited all over his legs. Wonderful. There was a copper taste so he must have thrown up blood, which was definitely not good. He felt a little better, though, even if disgusted. He looked around, turning his head slowly as red-hot ball bearings rolled around his brain. Nothing. A lot of unrecognizable smashed things intermixed with a couple of knocked-down trees, but that was about it. Jesus, what were those Claymores, anti-tank? Anti-aircraft carrier? Next time, read the freakin’ label.

  Standing was an adventure because he had absolutely no control over his left leg. He found a piece of something, fence or tree, who knew, and hauled himself up with it. The makeshift crutch drilled into his armpit but he was numb and dead anyway, so, eh.

  He turned down the hill and peered fuzzily, just able to make out Heather Court at the bottom. His safe house was located at the end, a huge brick palace with a monstrous bricked gate. The guy who lived there was a mason and apparently loved his work. John picked it as a joke because it looked like a fortress so thank God for a sense of humor, because he could only see the huge and grotesque right now. With a great gasp of pain, he placed the crutch forward. Move. Just move, there’s sanctuary, there’s medicine, there’s rest.

  That is, if he can get there. If no one shoots him in the meantime. If the human body was more durable than he suspected, if will was everything, if God does help.

  If.

  25

  Five years later

  “Sergeant Rashkil?”

  Christ. All. Mighty. Who the hell was bothering him now? Collier kept his eyes loosely shut, feigning sleep, which by God he was getting two hours of, no matter what. He didn’t care if right now the whole Red Army was pouring through a breach in the Rancocas. Fuck ’em. Sleep.

  “Are you Sergeant Rashkil?”

  Jesus, persistent little bastard, wasn’t he? Collier didn’t recognize the voice, so not a sudden bug-up-the-ass request from the L-T to check out a warehouse or go get some supplies or shoot a couple of deserters. No, this was worse, some Battalion thing, something from the Major.

  He was getting very tired of being the Major’s go-to guy. Yeah, that’s one of the hazards of being her lover, Coll, old boy, you’re on her mind, but, damn, these recon and capture missions were getting old. Was she trying to get him killed? Maybe. That would end the rumors, wouldn’t it? Collier smiled inwardly. All notions of chivalry have him dying for the woman he loves. Perhaps she’s more chivalric than he thought.

  There was a pause but Persistent Bastard had not gone away. He was standing there; Collier could feel him. Did not take hints, this one.

  “Hey! Sergeant Rashkil!” the voice was loud and the hot breath drizzling on Collier’s ear meant PB was now leaning over him and shaking the hammock.

  Shaking the hammock? Collier moved, clearing the leather holster he always wore, sleep or no sleep, and jammed the .45 underneath persistent bastard’s chin while grabbing the back of his persistent little head. He opened his eyes, “You know you can get killed sneaking up on people like that.”

  Collier was looking into a pair of bright blue eyes, startling, like neon lights, big and wide and expansive and regarding him with coolness.

  “I didn’t sneak,” Blue Eyes retorted from a thin slit of a mouth, red and set like an angry zipper beneath the squashed ruin of a nose. Lots of fist fights, this one. “I called out at least twice. You heard me. You ignored me. Now, you gonna shoot me?”

  “I haven’t decided.” Collier pushed him with the .45, not hard because he had a sudden liking for the pissed-off little bastard, and sat up. Two or three privates the next lane over stared at them – sullen, resistant, typical fuckhead draftees they were getting now. Collier glared and raised the pistol and they scurried away.

  He turned back on Blue Eyes, who was sheathing a trench knife. Hmm, pretty fast. “Were you going to stab me?”

  “If you shot me.”

  “Take me with you, huh?”

  “Fuckin A.”

  Collier chuckled, “This a promotion move?”

  Those gigantic eyes narrowed and Collier saw true offense in them, “I don’t do that, Sarge.”

  “Hmph. That would make you unique,” Collier observed and saw the offense turning into belligerence. Touchy guy, dressed in Pre-Event jungles, good quality stuff, so must be vet. Short, no more than 5’6”, making him one of the many people over whom Collier, in his 6’2” (and ½), loomed. Corporal stripes, worn and frayed, so corporal for a while, so a promotion move was not out of the question. But he had a Transportation Command patch, which made such a move odd.

  “Is that how you made staff?” the corporal regarded him.

  Collier shook his head, “I don’t do that, either.” He reached over to his blouse hanging on a peg and fished around an upper pocket for an elusive cigar while casually dropping the .45 to his lap, keeping the barrel pointed at the corporal. Somebody could have hired him to make the move. But, then, why didn’t he just stab Collier in the hammock?

  “Hmph,” Corp bleated back at him, whether in derision or agreement, Coll couldn’t tell. Every word out of Blue Eyes’ mouth was probably a combination of derision and something. That might explain why he was still a corporal. “So, are you Collier Rashkil?”

  Collier stiffened, but didn’t show it. That’s why no hammock stabbing; not sure of his target. His patron couldn’t save him if he killed the wrong man.

  “Possibly. Why you asking?” Collier’s trigger finger tensed a bit. Who’s doing this? Jonesy? He’s the only one up for it, but Jonesy was vet and they’d saved each other’s asses too many times for coincidence and you don’t waste the guys who keep you breathing, so no, not Jonesy. A lateral from another company then, which was stupid because the Major would promote Jonesy before allowing an interloper and Jonesy would kill the bastard anyway. So, a moron from another company. Had to be Eliot.

  The corporal stared hard for a second and then went red, “You know, I don’t have to do this.” He reached fast under a strap and shrugged the backpack off his shoulders.

  Shoot him, Collier’s reactions commanded and he moved the barrel off his knee and felt the tension and waited for the surprise of recoil but the corporal hunkered down and opened the backpack while muttering and dug around in what looked like a change of clothes and you just don’t take your eyes off the man you’re about to kill so maybe…

  Collier held.

  “Just doing a goddamn favor... treated like shit, shithole front... what the fuck?... advantage of my good fuckin’ nature, bastard sonsabitches...” The corporal uttered this in various iterations and Collier couldn’t help smiling. What a funny guy.

  “There!” the corporal proclaimed and snapped straight up like a gravity knife, holding a big stuffed manila envelope, stained and dirty and torn on one corner and obviously of some weight. He shook the envelope at Collier, “Are you Rashkil or not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then fuck you,” and the corporal pitched the envelope next to Collier, who flinched, waiting for the subsequent explosion. Take out him, the corporal and about five or six others, too. No witnesses and no payoffs. Not so stupid. Couldn’t be Eliot, then.

  A few seconds went by and nothing blew up and the corporal, still red-faced and now breathing hard
, stood fists ready with a make-your-fucking-move expression. Collier didn’t even glance at the envelope. Instead, he deliberately broke eye contact, slowly de-cocked the pistol and then laid it back on his lap, still available. “Perhaps I have misjudged you.”

  “Fuckin’ A.”

  “So who are you, Corporal?” Collier stayed on the obviously perturbed dwarf, fighting the urge to go for the package. One issue at a time, one target at a time, don’t be distracted by all of them. You get killed that way. Sometimes a grenade or an M-14 took care of a lot of threats simultaneously, but each action as it comes. The package seemed benign. The corporal didn’t.

  The corporal glanced at the package, some puzzlement on his face, but he played along. “Corporal Henry Price, Sarge, 3rd platoon, A Company, 2nd Battalion, 98th Truck, ATC.”

  “98th? I thought you guys were in the Valley.”

  “We are. Right now I’m not.” Price stopped talking and regarded Collier, a challenge in his eyes. Collier resumed his search for the cigar, finally locating it and placing it between his teeth. It was a good one, a panatela, Maduro.

  He had found four of them wrapped in a plastic bag behind a sofa in one of the houses on the main street of Pemberton. How the earlier scroungers missed it, he didn’t know. Another sign of how sloppy things were getting. No bands on the cigars but they were high quality, dry, of course, but still smokable, probably some Cuban-seeded Dominicans. He had smoked half of this one already and now seemed as good a time as any to finish it. He fished around for his lighter.

  “The Valley,” Collier spoke it as he flashed on cerulean skies and cold air and blue mountains covered with snow and woods, the Shenandoah coiled around and through it all, mother and protector, always there, a guide, the way home. Home. “You going back?”

  The corporal shrugged. That could mean a lot of things. Either Price was legit, doing some kind of supply run which made him one brave (and crazy) SOB, given their situation, or he wasn’t legit, a deserter, which was odd because the last place a deserter showed up was back at a Reg unit. Deserters went into the mountains or headed West or jumped sides, believing that Red horseshit about brotherhood and workers’ paradises. No sergeants in the Red Army, brother, no officers, we are noble and equal and fight the oppression of the masses. No five-year-old MREs, either, we eat fine rolls and drink good wine and make our plans in a big circle and then hug and screw each other up the ass…